


Tattoo Of My Name On You

by akadefenders



Series: Means of Possession [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blindfolds, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Communication, Dirty Talk, Dom Will Graham, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kink Negotiation, Language of Flowers, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Praise Kink, Rimming, Romance, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shibari, Spanking, Sub Hannibal Lecter, Tattoos, Top Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akadefenders/pseuds/akadefenders
Summary: After the proposal, Will and Hannibal still need to finish what they started...
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Means of Possession [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078730
Comments: 23
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

Living a life like the one he has, sleep has always come lightly to Hannibal. After he had slept through Mischa’s evisceration, he had never been able to find sweet and easy peace, capable of waking at the slightest sound. Medical school and internships had taught him how to survive on little to no sleep, and constantly changing sleep schedules as he flipped from day to night shift. Safety was a feeling he never felt, remaining vigilant even as his body slumbered. It allowed him to be able to hunt at night and display his art, and remain a functioning psychiatrist by day and host dinner parties in the evening.

For a change, today Hannibal wakes slowly, body feeling like molasses. He had been right the night before - everything aches. His legs feel like jelly, he can feel the pull of the muscles in his thighs where Will had bent him. He catalogues the throb of various bruises and bites and shifts gently, feeling a shot of pain through his spine and ass. Hannibal is no stranger to pain, has a higher pain tolerance than most, and is used to bodily feats few could accomplish. He had saved Will from Muskrat Farm with a brand burning through the skin of his back. He had fought the Dragon with a gunshot wound and survived a fall off a cliff. But he savours this pain, because it comes at Will’s hands, at Will’s mouth. He does not push it away but feels it tingle through him. It is the best kind of pain he has ever experienced.

A hand is stroking through his hair, massaging his skull in strong, smooth, sure motions. Rubbing behind his ears, at the nape of his neck, at the pressure points at his temple. It is a soothing sensation, taking away the sting he had felt the night before when Will had wrapped his fingers through his dirty blonde hair and pulled hard.

He opens his eyes to find Will sitting up and looking down at him, drinking from a steaming mug, the aroma of the Panamanian coffee Hannibal prefers wafting towards him. 

“Good morning,” he says warmly.

Hannibal works his throat for a couple moments, swallowing hard.

“Good morning, Will.”

“Would you like some coffee? Some water?”

“Water would be wonderful, thank you.”

The glass is back with the straw again, but unlike last night Hannibal feels a sting of shame at having to use it. He struggles upwards to sit against the headboard so he can drink properly but then feels his ass and thighs smart with pain. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, remembering the reason for the tenderness of his skin.

“Are you okay? Was I too rough last night?” asks Will. Hannibal thinks he can detect a hint of anxiety from him.

“You were perfect Will, I am just a little sore this morning, but it is a pleasant feeling overall,” he replies. “Last night was perfect. I could ask for nothing more.”

Will flushes at the compliment. Like everything else about him, it is exceedingly lovely. 

“Still, here, eat this and drink your water. I got you some Tylenol for the pain.”

Will lays down a small wooden tray Hannibal had not seen before as it had been on the side table, obscured by Will’s body. There is a plate with a sandwich on it, cut diagonally into halves, and a tiny shallow bowl with two white tablets. He can smell avocado, lemon juice, coriander chutney, tomatoes, ham, and a fried egg. Will cooks on the weekends - he is adamant to pull his own weight in their home and determined to give Hannibal a break - but overall, he does not go out of his way to prepare dishes. Oh he cleans and repairs the leaking taps, removes leaves from the gutters, keeps the garden flourishing, catches them fresh fish, and has even built some of the furniture in their new home himself, but he doesn’t have the same passion for cooking like Hannibal does. Seeing the sandwich, Hannibal’s heart thuds a little in his chest and he smiles.

“Thank you Will.”

He drinks the glass of water first, leaving a little so he can swallow the tablets later. Then he chews the sandwich slowly, savouring each bite just like he had the pain. It is simple yet filling in a satisfying way, like Will himself. There is little to no presentation, the aesthetics are negligible, yet the nourishment is undeniable. Protein and carbohydrates and vegetables. As he eats he wonders whether this is the kind of lunch Will had packed for himself on long days teaching. The kind of lunch he took with him when he went fishing in Wolf Trap. Now, he takes the food that Hannibal gives him. Bento boxes filled with fresh sushi and grilled vegetables, carefully wrapped translucent chicken spring rolls and warm miso soup in a thermos, home-made chocolate croissants that took two days to prepare, croquettes filled with spicy hollandaise and mushrooms, and fresh fruit from the farmer’s market cut into small pieces and drizzled with dressing.

He finishes the sandwich and swallows the tablets then leans back to sit against the headboard, only to be gathered up into Will’s arms. Will is usually the less tactile of the two so this is a welcome surprise. The tray is placed back on the bedside table, and Will holds his hands, running his fingers over the ring.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he confesses. “I can’t believe you said yes.”

As if he could have ever said no, in any capacity. He would follow Will wherever he led them, even if it was to their deaths.

“Believe it, Will. You have me forever now.”

Will presses a kiss to his temple and he can feel his smile against his skin.

“I’ve always had you forever, Hannibal. I was just too scared to accept what you were giving.”

“Better late than never.”

They sit together for a few moments more, time stretching to accommodate the depth of their affection. If last night was a storm then this morning is a sunlit day. Indeed, the sun is shining outside and he can hear the turtle doves that nest in the ash tree on their property. He has never felt more content, except perhaps on the bluff when he and Will had consummated their violent relationship in a beautiful dance of blood and steel.

A small thought enters his brain, it scratches at the rooms where he has locked away the things he and Will choose not to address anymore, conversations that hurt and prod and wound more than anything else. Conversations they have had in the past, and while never resolved, chosen to lay to rest. Will in pain is beautiful, his suffering at Hannibal’s hands in the past has brought them together, and yet he is past that now. Now he delights in Will’s happiness. It is his to give, just like his pain was. Yet the thought grows fiery and all consuming, until Hannibal has to know.

“Did you love your wife?”

Will stiffens by his side. He knows of their pact to let the past go, he has elucidated his desires for Hannibal to not deride the importance of Molly and Walter Foster in his life, and has reassured him that there is no competition between the life he had then and the one he leads now. So for Hannibal to bring it up now must mean the inquiry is fundamentally important to him.

“Hannibal…”

“The truth, if you please Will. I promise I will not be angered by your response.”

Will is silent for a moment more.

“When I met my wife, I was six months out of what had happened in Florence. We didn’t meet anywhere special, just the pet food aisle at a local grocery store. I was hurting, it felt as though my ears had been ringing for months on end in the aftermath of our explosion. I should have felt triumphant by finally catching the Chesapeake Ripper the way Jack did, manipulating him into turning himself in, but all I felt was...grim and empty. The worst part is I actually missed you.”

“Why is that the worst part?” asks Hannibal, trying to hide the sting that he feels.

“Because of how you had hurt me. Hurt us. Ripped me apart. Broke our family. I hallucinated Abigail for months on end after you left me bloodied in your kitchen. And then you drugged me in Florence, tried to consume me one last time.” 

Will’s voice grows an edge here. And Hannibal knows that that is a wound that has not yet healed. He forces himself to not wince, not to speak. He regrets the moment, knows that eating Will’s brain would have been a mistake, but does not know what to say. How to make it better.

“I should have hated you. But I missed the sound of your voice. I missed the wine we drank together...the intimacy of our words mingling in the illuminated darkness of your office. I missed someone seeing the worst of me and finding in it a companion. I dreamed of you night after night, knowing if I was a sane man that I should hate you, see a therapist, stop my dreams and move on with my life. But...I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. My dreams were the only place I allowed myself to see your face. I avoided the news, I skipped out on the trial and provided video testimony only, I cut ties with the FBI so I would never have to hear your name. It was another lie, because all I wanted to talk about was you. It was unhealthy and I was drowning. I couldn’t hate you, and for that, I hated myself.”

Will had dreamed of him. Hannibal had dreamed of him too. His eyes over the rim of a wine glass, dark and oh so enticing. Wrapping his hands in bandages. How his throat had worked as he had eaten the ortolan. Holding him in his arms as he left Muskrat Farm. That Will had dreamed of him too made his heart pound.

“And then?” prompts Hannibal.

“Then I met Molly. And you know what she was Hannibal? She was the opposite of you.”

"You ran into the arms of a person who could never remind you of me.”

“I ran into the arms of a person who felt like hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day. Like the sun in your hair as you emerge from the ocean. Her presence was a soothing, comforting thing. Molly came across a grieving man and saw potential. She saw all the parts of me I wanted to grow. She gave me someone to walk the dogs with, a son to play ball with, date nights to crappy restaurants and family fishing trips. I proposed six months into our relationship.”

“And did you enjoy that Will? How she was ordinary?” he bites out. He promised not to be angry but he is. He can feel it pulsing through his veins. That he had been pushed away, cast aside, that he had chosen to be imprisoned, all so Will could go find another person to share his life with. Someone who could never understand him. Not the way Hannibal did.

“I loved her because she didn’t hurt me.”

Will looks away from their hands and directly into Hannibal’s eyes. He finds it hard to hold Will’s gaze. Because it is undeniable - while Will has hurt him by betraying him and imprisoning him, Hannibal has objectively done far worse, even if it had been necessary at the time in aiding Will’s radiance. His becoming was glorious and Hannibal doesn’t regret the steps that had to be taken to reach it. But he cannot deny that Molly Foster gave Will what he never had - safety.

“She must have seen your scars,” he says, changing the topic. “Did you ever tell her about me?”

“Yes, I couldn’t move around it. I still dreamt of you and some nights I woke shaking and panting. She held me in the darkness and I told her about my friend who I trusted, the serial killer who I caught. She assumed the dreams were nightmares and I never corrected her.”

“But she never knew the depth of what we shared.”

“She knew I cared for you and you split me open with a knife. She knew I cared for you anyway.” 

“Did the dreams ever stop?”

“Yes. For the better part of two years, there were no serial killers living in the bone areas of my skull.”

“Until you came back.”

“Until I came back.”

“Do you still love her?”

And this is the thought that had entered his mind. This is what will scrub him raw and leave the pieces of his heart curling in Will’s grasp. Because if Will still loves her...Hannibal doesn’t know what he will do. He focuses on breathing in and out regularly but he knows that Will knows what a monumental question it is. They have talked around it for a year but if Hannibal is going to marry Will then he has to know.

“I loved her,” says Will slowly, “and some part of me will always hold a fondness for her in my heart. But no, I don’t love her anymore. I can’t. Whatever part of me is responsible for love has steered me entirely towards you. And even if I did love her Hannibal, I would never go back to her. She deserves better than Will Graham. And I choose you.”

Hannibal blinks rapidly, relief flooding his body.

“And what do I deserve Will?” he asks.

“Me. Only me.”

He leans forward and kisses Will once, twice, and one more time for good measure in gratitude. He sighs and shifts back to the way they were, letting Will hold him for a moment longer.

“Did you know then that I loved you? When you met her?”

“My only experience of love until that point was in the stories that I read, the movies that I saw. Molly lived up to that love. Your love was a thing with teeth and claws and knives. I didn’t recognise it with the image I had in my mind. I knew you were a psychopath. I thought you weren’t capable of love.”

“I have always defied categorisation, Will. You should know better than that,” chides Hannibal. 

“Yes, well, Bedelia was kind enough to set me straight.”

“And for that, I am grateful. We would not be here without her.”

Will bristles, just as Hannibal had expected. He no longer hurts Will with his manipulations, but he never lets a moment pass to let Will’s jealousy simmer to the surface. His irritation is a balm to Hannibal’s own jealousy. While Will is protective of Molly Foster and will not let Hannibal hurt her or her son, he has no such reciprocal feelings towards Bedelia du Maurier. Of course, Hannibal holds no desire to protect her himself so it is no matter. But it does amuse him that despite Will’s reassurances that Hannibal has no need to feel jealous, he doesn’t listen to Hannibal’s reassurances about Bedelia. His jealousy is fanged and he knows one day the two of them will pay a visit to Dr du Maurier and let their joint design allow her to meet their fate.

“When did you know you loved me?”

Will is silent at this, pondering.

“I don’t know when I started loving you. At the start, more than love I felt a kinship with you, a trust that had not come easily to me until that point. You were my paddle and I felt safe with you. Later, I felt free with you to express the parts of myself I knew would scare Jack and Alana and Beverly and even myself in the daylight if I showed them. Our connection was luminous in the darkness around us. I did not acknowledge that I loved you until that night on the bluff. It felt foolish to hide it from myself any longer.”

“I loved my sister,” he says and Will grows still. Another sore point, this time one that Hannibal avoids. “I loved my parents because they were my family. I loved Alana and Jack and Bella and even Bedelia as friends. They nourished me in their own way and I admired them.” His voice grows quieter now. “I loved Abigail as a daughter.” 

He does not dare look at Will now.

“I have always been capable of love but...the way I love is different to most others. When I ate Mischa, I realised that I could love someone and still consume them. It set me apart from the rest of the world. But you Will, you have changed me. I no longer have the desire to hurt you.”

"Your compassion for me is inconvenient?” asks Will.

“Yes.”

“But you cannot deny that you still want to consume me.”

“Tell me, what would your last meal on Earth be if you could choose it, Will?”

Will smiles a little at the non-sequitur. It is a fond smile.

“You know I don’t care about all that Hannibal. I’m not like you. I’d eat anything so long as you were the one to make it.”

Hannibal smiles at that, touched.

“And you? What would your last meal on Earth be?”

“Only you.”

Will is silent.

“What would you eat?”

“Your heart.”

Will kisses him gently then. 

“It is yours for the taking when you need it. Take my blood and my bones and my heart. I already belong to you anyway.”

He thinks they are both somewhat on the verge of tears so he presses a dry kiss to the crown of Will’s head and inhales his scent to hide their faces. He does not hide his face from God, but sometimes he needs to hide it from Will Graham.

He feels purified, buoyant, content. He had felt before that the pinnacle of happiness was the proposal, their union, but now with all the unspoken barriers out of their way, he feels better than ever before, surer of their connection knowing that no one can come between them. There is just one thing left to say.

“I am sorry Will.”

Will pulls back to look at him, curious.

“What for?”

“For Florence. I should never have hurt you there. I should have taken you with me and ran then. Convinced you of the life we could have together. I was...hurting. I was convinced it was the only way to forgive you. Sometimes I think of what would have happened had I eaten you. The image in my mind of the loneliness of my world then scares me. For that I am sorry. And grateful I was not allowed to go through with it.”

“I did not think you were sorry for any of it,” says Will, a little shocked.

“Well I am,” he says simply.

Will takes a deep breath in then releases it. He thumbs the scar the bone saw left behind. He cups Hannibal’s face and says, “Then you are forgiven for it.”

Their forgiveness was once delivered with knives. This time it is delivered with a smile, a brushing of a finger along his cheekbone, a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Come on,” says Will and they get out of bed. The pain he felt in the morning is now non-existent.

Will takes the dirty dishes downstairs as Hannibal uses the toilet. They brush their teeth and shave side by side. They shower together, soaping each other’s shoulders, washing each other’s hair. Will is so gentle with him that it almost hurts more than his violence. The conversation had been raw and Will’s hands smooth over the flayed emotions they displayed. Moments like these come often now, Hannibal muses. Will knows him, sees him, more intimately than any other being on the planet. He sees Hannibal’s bloodlust, his rage, his violence, his consumption - and still treats him this way, with a heart aching tenderness. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with it. Violence, in a way, is easier to understand.

When they leave the shower, Will takes Hannibal’s hand and removes the ring. Hannibal’s lip curls a little in displeasure. He doesn’t want the ring off him, the weight has grown familiar to him already. Will chuckles a little but slides the ring onto the ring finger of Hannibal’s right hand. It’s better than nothing. Then with a small razor he shaves the hair off of both his and Hannibal’s ring fingers. Hannibal applies more of the aloe vera gel from the night before onto his thighs and glutes before he dresses.

When they head downstairs, he sees that Will has already set up the table in the parlour with the paraphernalia from the box. He must have been awake for a significant amount of time before Hannibal woke, for he can smell the scent of the bleach solution Will must have used to sterilise the table. There is a medical tray cover upon which all the tattoo materials lie in neat, orderly rows. Will has always been organised and meticulous, and he is no different here.

“Are we doing it now Will?”

“If you are amenable.”

“Always.”

“I read through the instructions that came with the pack I ordered. I’ll do yours first, and that way you can see the process yourself.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal, sitting down on the carpet in front of the table, neatly folding his legs in front of him. Will blinks at him for a moment then follows suit.

He takes out a pair of medical gloves and snaps them on. Then, he takes the bottle of tattoo ink and begins to shake it up and down.

When a minute is up, he grasps two tiny containers and pours the ink into them. He closes the caps tightly and wipes off the excess ink with an alcohol wipe. He pours rubbing alcohol into another two small containers, then takes both bottles and puts them away in the box from last night.

“It is both to minimise ink waste and to avoid cross-contamination,” he explains. 

Will then pulls out a cotton pad and soaks it in rubbing alcohol to sterilise the patch of skin on Hannibal’s ring finger where the tattoo will lie. He has cut the letters ‘W.G.’ and ‘H.L.’ into a sheet of tattoo paper in a typewriter-esque font and now places the former stencil onto Hannibal’s ring finger. He stains the skin underneath with a tattoo pen so the design goes on perfectly. The letters are small yet stark on his skin. A long needle is removed from its packet and Will fills it with ink. 

“I’m going to need to refill the needle every few pokes. It will be hard to complete a solid line immediately because the ink spreads on the skin, but I will clean the excess ink and go over it as many times as needed.” 

Will’s voice is patient, steady and calm. Hannibal can tell he has done his research.

“Are you ready?” he asks. “You can still say no, Hannibal.”

“I am ready Will. I am with you.”

Will’s smile is more beautiful than any work of art he has ever seen.

The insertion of the needle sends a small pulse of excitement through him. Will’s claim on him has begun. The needle barely hurts. The sting is imperceptible. Will’s face is drawn tight in concentration as he traces the lettering. Hannibal is at a loss of where to look and finds himself flicking between Will’s furrowed brow and his hands pushing ink into his skin. Soon two letters stand out against his skin - W.G. The ink has bled a little but it is there now. Inside him. Will takes a cotton pad and daubs it with green soap solution, gently cleaning the skin. As the excess ink is removed, Hannibal sees that the lettering is not yet perfect; there are a few gaps in the linework. 

“Doing okay?” checks Will.

“Never better.”

Will refills the needle then goes over the lettering again, aiming for the gaps this time. His skin is a bit tender now but the pain is still negligible. When all is said and done, he wipes Hannibal’s skin again with a new cotton pad and more green soap solution. This time the tattoo is a solid line. He and Will grin at each other. He applies a thin, even layer of antiseptic ointment and applies a small circular bandage over the tattoo. Then the entire finger is lightly wrapped in clear plastic wrap. Will takes the needle and puts it in a yellow sharps container, placing all the waste on the table into a black garbage bag. He carefully removes and discards his gloves, washes his hands once more and makes his way back to Hannibal.

“All done,” he murmurs.

“Come here,” says Hannibal, leaning up to kiss Will, overcome with affection. Hannibal means to press a soft kiss to Will but is surprised when Will gently bites his lower lip and licks his way into his mouth. Will lazily tongues at him and Hannibal moans.

“Wait, it is your turn,” gasps Hannibal, pulling back before they get carried away.

“As you wish,” says Will, sitting back down. “Go wash your hands, try not to get the dressing too wet.”

Hannibal does as he is told and comes back to find Will patiently waiting for him. He snaps on the gloves, feeling a slight twinge of pain as the plastic momentarily presses against the tattoo. He sterilises Will’s skin with the rubbing alcohol then traces the letters ‘H.L.’ onto his skin through the stencil. He pauses to stare at it, enamoured at the sight. Will, too, it seems cannot look away. He swallows, takes a breath then turns to remove a fresh needle from the packet. He fills it from the other unopened container of ink and moves to hold Will’s hand in his gently but firmly.

“You want the needle to enter just into the first layer of skin,” Will instructs. “Not enough to draw blood but enough to deposit the ink.”

Hannibal nods. It is a simple enough procedure. He has given radiation tattoos to cancer patients before. He imagines this is not a dissimilar process, only longer and more careful.

Slowly, painstakingly, he pierces Will’s skin and retreats. The ink sits there beneath the dermis and spreads out a little over Will’s skin. He lets out a little sigh. Pushes the needle back in. Then out. Then in again. The process is meditative. He glances up at Will as he finishes the first letter. Will’s eyes are closed and his face relaxed. The sting of the needle is not enough to show hurt on his face. Hannibal continues onto the second letter, taking care to follow the straight line he had traced. When he is done, he does as Will had and wipes the skin with the green soap solution. There are fewer gaps than Will had left on him but then again, he does have surgical skills and the benefit of watching Will first. He refills the needle and fills in the few gaps he can find. 

When he is finished, he feels the sudden urge to lick Will’s finger, to feel the heat of his blood rising to the surface and the bitterness of the ink and soap and alcohol. To trace the lettering with his tongue. Of course, he does not do it, simply cleaning the tattoo once more, applying ointment and a bandage and the plastic wrap. He throws away the waste, disposes of the needle in the same sharps container, removes his gloves and washes his hands.

By now, Will has gone to the kitchen and he can hear him filling two glasses with water. Hannibal quickly puts away the remaining supplies in Will’s wooden box, folds the medical tray cover and throws it in the garbage bag. Then he takes the bag and throws it in the bin outside. The sharps container is placed on his desk to be taken to the local pharmacy. The parlour clean once more, he goes to the kitchen and accepts the glass of water Will has poured for him.

“Well, Dr. Lecter, it seems you are officially an engaged man,” he says, pleased as punch and a little smug.

“It seems I am Mr. Graham.”

“Got any plans for today?” he asks, trailing his hand down Hannibal’s side and pinching his hip.

“I don’t think you should hit on me Mr. Graham. You see, my fiancé is a jealous man,” says Hannibal teasingly.

Will raises an eyebrow.

“Is he? I think I can take him.”

“I don’t think you can. He once killed a man in a mechanised suit with his bare hands.”

“Did he now? What else has he done?”

“He manipulated a serial killer into setting a man on fire.”

“How grotesque,” remarks Will. “He sounds awful. What else?”

“He rescued me from my imprisonment and killed a dragon to save my life,” submits Hannibal, his eyes softening.

“Your knight in shining armour?” asks Will, shifting Hannibal’s hair slightly so his fringe is pushed to the side.

“He is a terrible sight to behold, covered in blood, holding knives,” says Hannibal breathlessly. “He frightens people.”

Will moves closer to him, tugging Hannibal forward until their hips touch and their heads are leaning against one another.

“And what about you? Mild mannered psychiatrist with a love for cooking and fashion. Does he horrify you?”

“I must confess, nothing enamours me more than when he is violent. He is a tempest in a human body.”

At that, Will kisses him. Hannibal smiles into the kiss. It turns into small pecks, nuzzles of their noses, wandering hands up and down their backs.

Finally they separate. 

“I’m going to go and take a walk outside for a bit, maybe head down to the beach,” says Will. It is his way of saying he needs some time alone with his thoughts, to process everything they have discussed and the milestone they have reached in their relationship.

“I might stay and compose a piece on the harpsichord for a while,” replies Hannibal, willing to give him some space. He needs some time too - he has a ring to buy of his own and a surprise to plan.

Will kisses him once more then leaves. Hannibal hears the jingle of Will’s keys and the soft thud of the door then enters the parlour and takes out his iPad. He has some work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will saying, "you split me open with a knife" is taken from Wishbone by Richard Siken.
> 
> Huge shout out to [Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix) for helping me edit this! All the encouragement is so helpful!
> 
> Please do not take the procedure outlined here for stick and poke tattoos as gospel! Do your own research before you attempt to tattoo yourself or others. 
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr @snailmailthings [here](http://www.snailmailthings.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal spends the rest of the week pretending like everything is normal and that he isn’t planning anything. It is a sufficiently challenging task due to Will’s insight into recognising Hannibal’s deceit, however presently he is incandescently happy and content to smother Hannibal with his contentment. He spends every morning affectionate, soft and warm, showering Hannibal with so much love that he finds himself wanting the whole world outside their bed to be erased entirely. All its beauty and devastation paling beside Will’s presence.

And if Will and he had been attuned before, now it seems that his attentions lie nowhere else. For a week, he catalogues every mark he left on Hannibal’s body, watching them fade as his skin and blood vessels knit back together. He sees a hunger in Will’s eyes as the bruises fade from dark purple to greens and yellows until they are gone altogether. But their lovemaking remains gentle now, Will accepting Hannibal into his body with gentle sighs and wandering hands. Hannibal tries very hard not to think about Will’s fantasies and when he might want to act them out but derives comfort in knowing that if his plan works then he will not have to wait much longer.

Will has always enjoyed nature. A primal, almost savage part of him is happiest when he is outside. He jogs in the mornings along the Mediterranean, watching the waves crash up and down the coastline. He gets lost in the swathes of river, fishing all day long. He sails on the boat and watches the sunsets. He drives to the woods then walks through the trees until he needs a compass to find his way back out of them. It is a counterpart to Hannibal for whom ocean waves and riverbeds mean very little, and the woods hold only danger, the cold, blood and teeth. 

This week, Hannibal takes full advantage of Will’s absences. He knows Will wants to stay with him but he always leaves, cognisant of his own tendencies of going mad if stuck inside for too long. Hannibal suspects it reminds him of his stint in the BSHCI but Will never divulges if that is the root cause for his restlessness indoors. Will still feels disbelief and guilt that Hannibal spent three years behind the same walls just for him. Hannibal knows this is what stops him from complaining of his past. He is wrong of course; Hannibal’s time in the BSHCI was his choice, perhaps cunningly manipulated by Will, but a choice regardless. Will was innocent of the crimes he was accused of then, and had little choice in the matter of his incarceration. His innocence now is another matter entirely.

The property they live on is secluded and large. Their neighbouring properties are all owned by rich businessmen and maintained as holiday homes, which had allowed their convalescence to continue uninterrupted away from the prying eyes of nosy strangers. They were allowed to exist in a kind of limbo, without the obligations of occupation or socialising. This suits Will best and Hannibal a little less so, but they find themselves driving to Barcelona when the urges to view art and culture become strong enough in him to be visible to Will. 

On ordinary days, Hannibal finds myriad ways to occupy himself while Will was away. He draws, this time with abandon, not on single pieces of paper he had to ask to keep but instead maintaining a proper journal just like his days before the BSHCI. He draws from memory, making sure that he remembers the streets of Paris and Florence in detail. He draws his old home in Baltimore that he had given up so readily. He draws his office, the chairs and the curtains, his shelves filled with his leatherback books, the ladder and the statues. But most of all he draws Will. Sketches of sleepy Will sprawled across the sheets, naked Will in the shower with beads of water caressing his skin, sunkissed Will on the deck of their boat with his strong arms pulling ropes and tying knots, righteous Will covered in blood and snarling, appreciative Will in the throes of passion. These last drawings he guards zealously, even from Will. If he is ever killed or captured, these are the images he will access in his memory palace. They hold a place in his heart and his mind that is akin to God.

He also composes. Hannibal had bought the property they have now settled in the day after he had killed Tobias Budge, some part of him indulging in a small fantasy. He had taken that time to acquire a harpsichord for the space. When they had entered the home, he had discovered that the harpsichord was an out of tune one but that was an issue that was easily fixed across the spread of one warm afternoon. Now he composes sonatas and minuets and nocturnes. He tests his own skills and plays Bach until his fingers and wrists ache. In the evenings, Will drinks whiskey, leans against the harpsichord or sits on the couch, and watches him play. 

And of course, he cooks. His return to the kitchen, properly stocked with his meat, and filled with appliances of his own choosing, feels triumphant. This is who he is, at the heart of him. If the way to a man’s heart is his stomach then Hannibal’s heart has been missing from him for three years. He cooks his favourite meals, he branches out into Andalusian cuisine, he experiments with flavour and freshly caught fish. He spends hours in the kitchen creating works of edible art that ground him in his own brilliance.

He and Will are supremely cautious in acquiring long pig. It had taken some time before Will had felt comfortable enough to kill once more, having only done so in moments of self defence, or indeed Hannibal’s defence, in the past. Their choice of victim is no longer the rude alone; Will’s streak of righteousness ensures they also find victims who are deserving of his divine punishment. They never hunt in their own backyard, they never hunt in sounders of three. They never hunt only the rude or only the repugnant - Will takes care to protect those he deems innocent and Hannibal recoils at the thought of being a common vigilante. They never display their kills, although Hannibal sketches each one upon their return home then shows it to Will, who closes his eyes and lives through the tableaus. Compromise is threaded through their murders. In some ways, their relationship is healthier than that of other mundane couples.

This week when Will leaves, Hannibal completes one perfunctory sketch a day, composes one short piece, and cooks the most simple, least time consuming dishes he can manage. Enough to provide evidence to Will that he has been busy and at home all day long. The subterfuge is exciting; a part of him has missed the deception and manipulation. To be doing it now with utterly benign motives is pleasurable in and of itself. Some days, he wishes he was practising as a psychiatrist again. Although it is far more desirable to take what is freely given now that Will is his for the taking, he longs to finds his way inside his skull again. There is a tinge of boredom starting to seep in at the routine, but the risk to change their lifestyle to a more brazen one is far too much at the moment. 

Freddie Lounds is still not convinced of their death and reports that despite being fired from the FBI for unethical conduct leading to the loss of yet another FBI agent as well as a notorious serial killer whose crimes were not yet entirely uncovered, Jack Crawford is still searching for them. Alana Bloom and Margot Verger are in hiding and have placed a bounty on his head out of fear of retribution. And Frederick Chilton has been maligning Will’s good name as revenge for his own injuries. Hannibal’s accounts had all been frozen at his disappearance but he had taken the liberty of directing a large portion of his funds to an offshore account with Chiyoh’s help the very first day Will had come to ask for help in capturing the Dragon. A few months longer, perhaps a change in scenery to completely rid their tracks, and Hannibal will move back into the roles he desires. He has promises to keep.

After completing his tasks for the day, Hannibal leaves the house, driving to Barcelona, a city big enough for his needs and easy enough to get lost in and not recognised. On days like these where he leaves for an indulgence and not a necessity therefore requiring more time in public, he wears clothes that Hannibal Lecter would never be caught dead wearing. Faded jeans and one of Will’s flannel shirts along with a cap. He doesn’t shave and lets the stubble fit the aesthetic of the character he is creating. 

It takes him a week to plan and complete Will’s surprise given that it has three parts to it. He goes with his instinct, trusting that he knows Will well enough that it shall be well received. A flutter of excitement and nerves sits in his belly each evening as he meets Will’s eyes over the dining table. On the night before his surprise will be ready, pending one more visit to a jeweller in the city, his happiness is so large he feels incandescent with it. He has spent the evening making then setting cinnamon ice cream, and mulling apples, pears, figs and plums for tomorrow night. At dinner, he pointedly avoids looking at Will’s bare ring finger but stares at his own, running his finger over Will’s claim. He feels his heart beat acutely, and when he looks at Will, he can see that Will can feel it too.

“You’re happy,” he remarks.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, feeling no need to hide it. “I have many reasons to be happy.”

When they go to bed, Hannibal gentles Will’s kisses into something slower and softer, non-sexual. 

Will looks at him with a warm sort of confusion. Neither of them have ever demanded sex but it is unusual for either one of them to decline advances either. There had been a hesitance at first but that has long faded.

“I’d like to wait.”

“Wait? As in...till marriage?” asks Will with disbelief. “Because that ship has already sailed. We’ve had a lot of sex this week already, in case you missed that.”

Hannibal chuckles.

“No Will, you misunderstand me. That was not my intention. Neither of us are pure in any sense so that would defy the purpose of the archaic practice in the first place.”

“Then why?”

Hannibal hesitates. The real reason is he wants to wait for tomorrow night. Sex with Will is always wonderful but it always leaves him a little sore, a little marked. He has a fading bruise on his neck from two nights ago and small red scratches on his back from the night before. He wants to be unblemished and untouched for tomorrow but explaining this would spoil the surprise. 

Evidently some of his turmoil shows on his face for Will immediately says, “It’s okay, you’re allowed to say no and not have to explain yourself.”

With that he kisses Hannibal on the forehead and leaves him to brush his teeth and change out of his clothes. Hannibal wants to correct him - he knows he can say no, that Will would never take advantage or pressure him. Neither of them are monsters of that sort. But that would involve explaining what he does mean so he follows his night time routine and follows Will into bed, spooning behind him and burying his nose in Will’s curls, smelling the comforting scent of home. 

The next day he sends Will off to his boat with a picnic basket filled with tiny finger sandwiches, poached lobster tail with cauliflower and butter sauce, and vanilla panna cotta with rhubarb and ginger. He takes out the pre-prepared centrepiece that has been sitting in the basement for a night and arranges it on the dining table. Then he drives to the jeweller and picks up the ring. His next errand requires a little more effort but he has prepared the car well to ensure maximum comfort for everyone involved. When he comes home, he sets up his new purchases, taking care to ensure that Will would only see them when Hannibal so desired. 

Lastly, in the early afternoon when the sun burns the hottest, he starts preparing their dinner. Today he cooks asparagus spears with truffle, poached free-range duck egg and hollandaise sauce for the entrée. Something deceivingly light yet requiring an hour of attention nonetheless. Simultaneously he works on mousseline of grouse with pearl barley, savoy cabbage, pancetta and red wine, a dish that takes him three and a half hours to prepare. Hearty and decadent, he is sure Will has never tasted grouse before, and certainly not cooked like this. He pours every inch of his expertise and love into making the dish perfect. He bakes pain d'épices to finish off the dessert he had started the night before, gently reheating the fruit and ensuring the ice cream has set properly. He plates the dishes and when he is done, he pauses to admire his work, satisfaction settling heady and deep in his chest at his creations. 

As the sun sets, he showers, cleaning himself quickly yet thoroughly and wearing Will’s favourite suit - a lightweight charcoal grey suited best for the Spanish heat with a maroon shirt that brings out his eyes. He leaves the first two buttons undone, opting to go without a tie so Will’s eyes will linger at his throat in the way that never fails to heat his blood. He starts to gel his hair back then stops. Will has always liked it falling into his face. He walks into their closet and removes the small package that has been sitting innocuously in his bottom drawer where he keeps his socks. He takes it downstairs and places it next to the rest of the purchases.

No sooner than he is done, he hears the garage door open. Heart in his throat, he takes a moment to calm himself then goes to greet Will as he hears his boots thudding in the entrance hall.

“Hannibal!” calls Will. “I’m home!”

“Yes, I can see that Will,” he replies, coming to a stop in front of him. 

“Hannibal, I have some fantastic fish for you,” says Will, bending down to take off his boots. “It’s going to taste so good and fresh.” He straightens up and puts the boots away. Turning around, he continues, “You know, one of these days you should really-”

But whatever Will thinks he should do, Hannibal never finds out because the second Will lays his eyes on him, he falls silent, mouth gaping open.

“Will?” he asks, trying and failing to hide the amusement in his voice at the reaction. He preens a little - he knows he is a striking man and that Will is attracted to him but a little reminder never hurt anybody.

“You,” starts Will, swallowing hard, his eyes lingering on Hannibal’s hair and eyes, then darkly at his throat, down his chest and abdomen, his legs in the tailored trousers and back up to his face. Arousal lingers in Will’s eyes and begins to pool in response in Hannibal’s own chest. He ruthlessly tamps down the feeling - he has an evening planned and if he lets Will get too carried away then all his plans will be ruined. 

“You look incredible,” he finishes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He stalks forward towards Hannibal, leaning in to offer what promises to be a firecracker of a kiss, when Hannibal stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Please indulge me Will, and go take a shower.”

Will looks a little put upon.

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” teases Hannibal, dipping his voice low and looking Will in the eyes.

Will’s eyes darken and shadow. Whatever he is thinking, Hannibal cannot tell but then he straightens away from Hannibal and leaves to go upstairs to their bedroom, calling out, “I’m going to make sure you deliver on that promise Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal smirks a little at a job well done and takes the bucket of fish Will has caught to the kitchen. He puts them away in the freezer, sets the table with cutlery and place settings for two and heats the entrée. He checks on his purchase once more and just as he opens a bottle of red wine, Will enters the dining room, no doubt lured by the smell of food. He is wearing a black suit with a black shirt, his hair loose with curls falling all over his face. Hannibal doesn’t think he could be more in love if he tried. He wants to keep this man by his side. He has not had the liberty to keep much of anything, starting with Mischa and ending with his freedom. He would like to keep Will Graham forever. 

“Will,” he breathes out. “You are just on time.”

“I can see that,” he says, staring at the table, noticing the effort that Hannibal has gone to. 

The centrepiece in particular has taken much time and many visits to local florists. Maroon, almost black calla lilies form the majority of the arrangement, symbolising magnificent beauty. Their fluted shapes remind Hannibal of chalices, of the Holy Grail, of sacrificial wine being poured at last suppers. But this is a do-over of their previous last supper, a beginning rather than an end. That meal had been filled with dread; this one could not be more different. The lilies mingle with black irises. The iris is a flower of faith, and this Hannibal has plenty of. Faith in God’s cruelty, in Will’s divinity, in their connection. It is also a promise to be faithful to their partnership, and be worthy of having Will’s faith in him. Rare, black orchids peek through to show strength and sexual desire. To hide any part of his feelings for Will would be a mistake, and the carnality of food and seduction cannot be lessened. The dark colours are broken by tiny white clematis blooms, an ode to Will’s ingenuity and mental beauty which he had fallen in love with first, before anything, and delicate bunches of lily-of-the-valley, traditional wedding flowers that hope for happiness. The floral arrangement is interspersed with fishing lures, some made by Will but many made by Hannibal. He knows Will understands the significance of his choices, and awaits his judgement.

“This all looks beautiful, Hannibal, you’ve outdone yourself,” says Will warmly.

“Thank you Will. Please, be seated.”

He pours Will a glass of wine as he says, “Teso La Monja, a Tempranillo from Toro, made from century-old pre-phylloxera vines, paired with asparagus spears with truffle, poached free-range duck egg and hollandaise sauce.”

Once his own glass is full and he is seated, he watches Will take a bite with undisguised pleasure. As his eyes close in appreciation, something that has been crawling in Hannibal’s chest finally settles. Sating his own hunger pales in the joy of watching Will feel sated. He can never ignore the way he hungers, an aesthete and a hedonist and a sadist to the last. But when Will gluts himself, he can feel his own stomach fill, fit to burst. He is voracious to the end, still a starving boy in the Lithuanian cold, but his hunger for Will is a different beast entirely and he is fed some days in ways he did not think could ever fulfill him, yet impossibly do. 

“So, are you going to tell me why you’ve gone to all this effort?” asks Will, raising the glass to his nose and scenting the crimson liquid inside.

“Surely you can tell, Will,” says Hannibal, keeping his face blank.

“Is that a challenge Doctor?” asks Will, raising one eyebrow.

“Merely an observation,” replies Hannibal. “You know me better than most others, and I do not think my motives are overly difficult to discern.”

“This is your proposal,” says Will confidently. “Your design.”

Hannibal smiles. Brilliant as always.

“Yes.”

“The flowers gave it away,” says Will. “Some obscure and unorthodox choices but the lily-of-the-valley could not be interpreted in any other way.”

“Do you know the story of the lily-of-the-valley, Will?”

“Enlighten me,” says Will, sipping his wine.

“One of many legends of the flower involves St. Leonard, a Frank from the court of King Clovis who reportedly came to England in the early 6th century to live a life of prayer as a hermit in the forest now named after him. His retirement was disturbed by a dragon - called Temptation in some versions - and they fought a protracted battle through the forest. Much blood was spilled. Nettles grew where the dragon's blood fell, lily-of-the-valley where St. Leonard's blood spilt. Ultimately, St. Leonard prevailed, slaying perhaps the last dragon in England. And today, the flowers are held by brides worldwide, hoping for joy, unknowing of their blood soaked history.”

“Are you calling me a saint, Hannibal?”

Hannibal leans over to hold Will’s hand, smoothing his palm over his and entwining their fingers.

"Saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch.”

“I do not think anyone else will see me like you do,” says Will softly. “I am no saint.”

“I do not think anyone is capable of that. Only I see you like this, Will,” murmurs Hannibal, his blood and breath surging. “You _are_ a saint, you are the second coming, you are the god of my idolatry.”

“Hannibal,” breathes Will. “You have put me on a pedestal that I’m afraid I cannot live up to.”

“Oh, Will,” he says, impossibly fond. “You have lived up to it more times than you could count already. There is no one else who could even begin to compare.”

Will shakes his head at him, pulls his hand away from Hannibal’s and up to his face. He strokes over Hannibal’s cheekbone with his thumb and Hannibal closes his eyes at the touch. 

“Serve the main course, Hannibal, or I will take you to bed right now and ruin your design,” he says with a gentle laugh.

Hannibal smiles at him and pulls away, taking their empty plates with him. He makes one cursory check on Will’s gift then returns.

“Mousseline of grouse with pearl barley, savoy cabbage, pancetta and red wine, a cabernet sauvignon, to be precise,” he says, placing an impeccably plated dish in front of him.

“Mousseline?” asks Will.

“A light savoury mousse. An unusual dish, to be sure, for an unusual night,” remarks Hannibal.

Will forks a bite into his mouth and then hums at the veritable cavalcade of flavour and texture. 

“This is unique,” he says at last. “I’ve never eaten anything like it.”

“I am always glad to open you to new experiences Will,” replies Hannibal.

“Glad to be my guide in this new world we have built. Glad to show me things I have never tried before and find joy when I like them. Glad to have some semblance of control over me,” observes Will.

“Your becoming is complete, Will. I simply wish to share with you all that life has to offer and bask in your radiance.”

“And the control?”

“If I control you, it is only because you control me in equal measure. You are always, _always_ , in my mind, Will but I confess, it has not always been a pleasure. I told you once, that there are rooms in my memory palace I cannot safely go. My own mind is not always a pleasure to me, and neither are you, yet you are there nonetheless, like my own being. Any talk of separation of me from your influence is impracticable.”

Will sighs.

“I do know what that is like. I once told you I couldn’t get you out of my head. I once told you that you and I had begun to blur. I don’t know what we are now. We are different in some ways yet in others…” he trails off.

“In others we are like the wave and the ocean.”

“The wave always returns to the ocean,” says Will. “No matter the destruction it causes or how high it crashes.”

“And have you and I not always returned to one another?”

Will smiles.

“Yes.”

When the mousseline is gone along with the Tempranillo, Hannibal returns with the dessert, anticipation sitting low in his gut. Once this course is over, he can reveal his plans to Will.

“Pain d'épices, mulled fruit and cinnamon ice cream, served with Ochoa Moscatel, a natural sweet white wine. This particular bottle was made in a warmer year, so you should be able to taste hints of honey and smell a floral aroma.”

“When did you have time to make all of this, Hannibal?” asks Will, looking a little stunned. “Doesn’t ice cream need time to set?”

“It does, which is why I set it overnight.”

“You’ve spent a day working on this meal?” he asks incredulously.

“I have spent all my time since the day after your proposal planning mine,” replies Hannibal smoothly, taking a bite of his dessert. Perfect.

Will laughs.

“You are such a peacock, Hannibal. You just had to outdo me.”

“Does it surprise you that I have a competitive streak, Will?”

“Not at all,” he chortles. “Only, you still composed. You played me your nocturne and that minuet in the evening. And you sketched! When did you have the time?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets. If I tell you, I will never be able to get away with it again,” says Hannibal.

Soon their plates are scraped clean and Hannibal stands, offering Will his hand.

“Come, I have something to show you.”

They walk hand in hand to the small sunroom at the edge of the house. Often, Will and Hannibal find themselves there, reading together. Tonight, the stars shine through the glass floor to ceiling windows and the room is suffused with twinkling light from lanterns. But none of this is of any concern to Will. On the floor is a large, plush dog bed, atop which sits a sleeping mutt the colour of rust. The dog appears to be a King Charles cavalier crossed with a beagle and perhaps some other breed too, and has a collar around his neck from which hangs a black velvet box.

“Hannibal,” says Will, overcome with emotion, tears in his eyes.

“Surprise,” says Hannibal softly. 

“You got me a dog?” exhales Will shakily, kneeling down and patting the animal who opens his eyes blearily.

“I got him from a shelter,” explains Hannibal. “His name is Rover but you are free to give him a new one.”

“Rover,” he murmurs. “Hey buddy, I’m Will.”

Will pats the dog and holds out his hand in front of his snout. Rover gives him a tentative lick, barks softly once then goes back to sleep.

“He is a rather lazy dog,” says Hannibal. “The workers at the shelter said he was definitely owned by a family once but abandoned. He is house trained but rather lonely.”

Will stands and walks over to Hannibal and kisses him. He pushes and pushes until Hannibal is pressed against the glass windows and kisses him until neither of them can breathe.

“Thank you,” he says ardently when they part.

“Will, I wanted to show you I was ready for a commitment, for a marriage. Compromise does not come easily to a man like me, but I am willing to do anything, go to any manner of lengths to show you my devotion.”

“I feel your devotion daily, Hannibal. I have never doubted that. You had nothing to prove.”

“I want this Will. I want this dog with you. I want to go through more lint rollers in a year than I have in a lifetime getting dog fur off my suits. I want to learn how to make that gourmet food you make instead of buying ordinary kibble from the store. I want to take the mutt for a walk with you and watch you inevitably have to clean up after him. I want all of it.”

“God,” says Will harshly, and kisses him again, this time frantically. Hannibal smiles into the kisses, almost laughing in his delight at pulling this reaction from Will. 

“Wait,” he says, pulling away. He goes to Rover and detaches the ring box from his collar. “One more thing.”

Will beams at him, grinning so widely that the scar on his cheek seems to gleam in the moonlight.

Hannibal gets down on one knee and opens the box. The ring is a thick band of what looks like old gold with a black inlay covered in gold lilies. It is slightly dented in one part and there are small scratches on the inside. Down the centre lie three small diamonds that sparkle as though brand new. 

“This ring belonged to my mother Will. I took it off her cold hands the day I left Aukštaitija and have kept it all this time,” he confesses.

Will stares at the ring, speechless.

“I had it resized for you, of course. A jeweller in Barcelona added the diamonds for me. I hope you find it tasteful and appropriate.”

“Hannibal, I, I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful but...this is so much more than I gave to you,” he says finally. 

“Will, nothing I give you could ever be enough. You fit into me like a hook into an eye,” says Hannibal.

“A fish hook?”

“An open eye.”

“You said we were family, even though I told you once that the concept of family was like an ill-fitting suit to me.”

“I meant it.”

“The suit doesn’t fit so poorly anymore,” says Will, looking down at the ring, then at Rover, then deep into Hannibal’s eyes.

“Will, please accept this ring as a token of my affections,” says Hannibal, unable to hold back any longer. “I would like nothing more than for you to wear my ring, like I already wear yours.”

“Then put it on me, Hannibal. Make an honest man out of me,” says Will, laughing joyfully.

Hannibal removes the ring, but before he slides it onto Will’s outstretched hand, he shows him the inside.

“It was engraved once with the word ‘mylima’ which means ‘beloved’. I had it changed to ‘mylimasis’ which is the masculine for the same word. I wanted it to be perfect,” he says, showing Will the lettering inside.

“It is perfect,” says Will.

Then the ring is on his finger above the healing tattoo and Will is kneeling in front of him and his whole face is being kissed. His brow, his hairline, down to his chin and his neck, back up to the tip of his nose, across both cheekbones, the lobes of his ears, and finally, _finally_ , his mouth. 

“Please,” breathes Will. “Please let me take you to bed now.”

“There is one last thing, Will,” says Hannibal, pulling away, his heart absolutely pounding now.

Will groans in frustration, having been denied for the second time tonight.

“What is it?” he asks.

Hannibal opens the bureau in the sunroom, removes the nondescript bag and wordlessly hands it to Will. 

Will looks at the bag and then at Hannibal in confusion.

“Open it,” says Hannibal. 

Will opens the bag and peeks inside. His face immediately shutters as though it is shutting down. Hannibal resists the urge to explain himself or fiddle with the knick knacks atop the bureau and simply waits Will out. He reminds himself to breathe evenly and not tremble with anticipation. 

Will tips the bag over. Several feet of red rope and a red silk blindfold tumble out and onto the floor. Will bends down and raises one hand to the rope to test its give. Then he runs fingers over the cool silken fabric of the blindfold. Finally, he looks up at Hannibal who feels a powerful jolt in his abdomen when he realises just how dilated Will’s eyes are, the blue grey of them obscured by a ring of black.

Will gathers up the rope and the blindfold and places it back in the bag. He straightens up, steps in close to Hannibal so he can smell Will’s cologne, and looks him straight in the eye.

“Upstairs. _Now_ ,” he says in a tone that harbours no room for objection.

“Yes, Will,” says Hannibal softly.

“I want you to go upstairs, strip and wait for me on the bed.”

“As you wish,” he murmurs, and turns to leave.

Will grabs his hand. 

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

Will releases his wrist and watches him leave. His gaze burns Hannibal’s neck long after he has left the sunroom. He feels Will’s eyes like a physical touch as he removes his clothes and wonders what he is doing downstairs. He puts his shoes away, gently removes his cufflinks, hangs his suit and his shirt, and puts his underwear in the hamper. He sits on the bed and thinks long and hard about what the night is going to be like, listening to the sounds of Will doing the dishes. He takes the time to ground himself, knowing he is safe with Will.

In what seems like both no time and quite possibly fifteen minutes, Will enters the room with the bag. His eyes are blazing and waste no time looking Hannibal up and down. It’s odd; he hasn’t felt naked until now. 

He and Will look at each other until the raw hunger in Will’s eyes is too much for him to bear. He understands why they call it eye contact and looks down at his engagement ring. 

“You have been very good to me tonight, Hannibal,” says Will. “I think you deserve a reward.”

Hannibal looks at Will.

“Do your worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Hannibal says, 'Saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,' he is referring of course to the fateful meeting of Romeo and Juliet. In the show Will says that he is not fortune's fool but rather, Hannibal's and quotes Romeo so I had Hannibal quote Juliet here to complete the parallel. He also quotes Juliet when he describes Will as the 'god of his idolatry' referencing the lines 'Do not swear at all. Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry.'
> 
> 'You are always, always, in my mind, Will but I confess, it has not always been a pleasure. I told you once, that there are rooms in my memory palace I cannot safely go. My own mind is not always a pleasure to me, and neither are you, yet you are there nonetheless, like my own being. Any talk of separation of me from your influence is impracticable,' is a rewording of the famous quote from Wuthering Heights. Cathy says, ' - he's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself - but, as my own being - so, don't talk of our separation again - it is impracticable.'
> 
> Lastly 'you fit into me / like a hook into an eye / a fish hook / an open eye' is a quote from Power Politics by Margaret Atwood.
> 
> The ring Hannibal gets for Will looks like [this](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/fd/6d/54/fd6d54f0658c01c981beadd1a73b2093.jpg).
> 
> You can look at the recipes for [asparagus spears with truffle, poached free-range duck egg and hollandaise sauce](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/asparagus-recipe-truffle-duck-egg-hollandaise), [mousseline of grouse with pearl barley, savoy cabbage, pancetta and red wine](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/mousseline-grouse-recipe), and [pain d'épices, mulled fruit and cinnamon ice cream](https://www.greatbritishchefs.com/recipes/mulled-winter-fruits-recipe) to see the sheer amount of effort and expertise that went into the dinner Hannibal makes.
> 
> My wonderful friend Lyle has painted [glorious fanart](https://kissingcannibals.tumblr.com/post/642426573049462784/you-see-all-of-me-and-love-all-of-me-even-the) of Will's ring and Hannibal's tattoo! Please go give it your love!
> 
> The next chapter will contain explicit content, so please stop reading here if you are uncomfortable with that!
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr @snailmailthings [here](http://www.snailmailthings.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags before you read xx

His words hang in the air between them.

“That’s where you’re wrong Hannibal,” says Will. “I intend to do my very best.”

“I expect no less of you,” says Hannibal warmly.

“Are you cold?” Will asks.

“No.”

And he isn’t. The night is balmy and more than anything he feels overheated, feverish with anticipation. His own nudity has never bothered him, comfortable as he is with his own body. The sensations he feels seem heightened; he feels more awake than he has ever been before. There is an awareness of his body and Will’s presence in the room that he has never felt before. He feels his cock start to stiffen just from Will’s gaze that hits his skin like a physical presence.

“We need to discuss a few things first. If you’re cold, tell me now and I can get you a blanket.”

“I am quite alright Will.”

“We’ll start off simple - we need to discuss safe words.”

“I don’t need a safe word,” is Hannibal’s immediate response.

And he doesn’t. After all this time, he trusts Will. There is a violence in them both, but he has the benefit of knowing their particular brand of monster doesn’t extend to the bedroom. In sexual scenarios, he is quite safe with Will. But on a note more akin to his own nature, he is curious. He wants to know Will’s fantasies fully, delve into the parts of his brain where he cannot reach and pull his darkest impulses out like offal from a gutted animal. To see where Will would push if left to his own devices. What liberties he might take.

“No safe word, means no ropes or blindfolds Hannibal. That is non-negotiable.”

He frowns.

“I doubt there is anything you would willingly want to do to me, Will, that I would not enjoy.”

“I can think of some things,” says Will.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

“Such as?”

“We’ll discuss boundaries next. Safe words first. If you don’t want to pick one, we can use the traffic light system. Are you aware of it?”

“Of course Will, I was a psychiatrist who worked with a rather intriguing variety of patients.”

“Put my mind at ease and tell me what it is.”

“Green means go ahead, yellow means pause, and red means stop immediately.”

“Good.”

Hannibal stares at Will. There’s something hard and aroused in his eyes but there is another emotion too that takes him some time to place. When he realises what it is, his heart warms. Will is concerned. He wants Hannibal to be safe through it all.

“It’ll be alright Will,” he says, trying to assuage Will. “I trust you.”

Will smiles at that.

“I know. Now boundaries. Tell me yours. You must know them.”

“Do you have any boundaries, Will?”

“Quite a few you have already crossed outside the bedroom,” he says, smirking. “In the bedroom - of course I do. But I suspect you already know I will not do anything unsanitary.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal delicately, wrinkling his nose at the thought.

“Nothing involving age play. And I have had quite enough of having my consent be played with in the past.”

Hannibal thinks back to the times he has drugged Will and intubated him.

“A fair point,” is all he manages to say.

“Now, your turn.”

“One moment, if you please Will.”

Will nods jerkily as Hannibal closes his eyes to think. Over the years he has treated patients with various psychosexual proclivities, capacities for violence that bleed over into sex, paraphilias and the like. He thinks of physical violence first - asphyxiation, blood, knives. He has never once treated a lover with violent intentions; for one it would have been too suspicious for respected psychiatrist Dr Hannibal Lecter to partake in such activities, and for another, sex and violence in conjunction have held no appeal to him. Being attacked by Jack, Cordell, Matthew Brown and the Dragon had not aroused him. But Will’s hands on his throat had driven him into a frenzy, and the idea of a knife being held against him, of his blood leaving his body as Will consumes him is a heady one. The spanking had been yet another welcome surprise. The idea of Will one day taking his life filled him with an unexplainable excitement. Hannibal shivers. Violence is arousing to him only when it is delivered by Will’s hands, anointing his skin like holy oil.

Bondage is obviously something he is willing to participate in. A part of him is idly curious as to whether being bound will remind him of his time at Mason’s hands but he dismisses the idea entirely. That had less been a moment of trauma and more an exercise in delayed gratification and righteous comeuppance. The blindfold is another curiosity, one that Will hadn’t mentioned being a part of his fantasies. He wants to see the results of sensory deprivation - allow Will to be entirely in control of what he experiences - and to perhaps appreciate the aesthetic value of the red silk with the red ropes.

Role play, too, is an interesting concept. He wonders how Will would do in such a scenario with his empathy, his mirror neurons firing off rapidly. Will is capable of manipulation and deception to an exceptional degree and Hannibal suspects he would take to any role like well...a fish in water. He wonders what kind of roles they could inhabit - predator and prey, doctor and patient, professor and student. All transgressive, all slight variations on their real personalities. An opportunity perhaps for the future.

But he suddenly thinks of his past. Cold freezing winters in the woods. Rotting, ragged clothes. Shivering and moving till his feet bled just to stay warm. Living bodies like corpses and corpses like food. Months of silence, mute in the face of his loss.

He opens his eyes.

“We can negotiate most things but I do not wish to be involved with any sort of temperature play, specifically to do with the cold. And I do not ever wish to use a ball gag.”

Will looks relieved that Hannibal had thought through the situation with some degree of consideration. But he also looks curious and concerned. Hannibal’s erection has wilted and now he trembles in earnest. Will immediately wraps him in the duvet.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Hannibal is quiet for a long moment.

“My family died in the winter. I was mute for several months afterwards.”

The words hang in the air.

“Then that is a hard limit,” says Will. “Thank you for telling me that Hannibal.”

Will tilts up Hannibal’s head and kisses him gentle and strong. His hands are big and warm against Hannibal’s face, comforting and grounding.

“We don’t have to do this tonight,” he says.

Hannibal is silent for a moment.

“Kiss me again.”

Will pushes Hannibal back and down onto the bed, climbing atop him. He brushes his lips over Hannibal’s, feeling the full and peculiar shape of them with his tongue before dipping it inside. It is more tender than arousing but Hannibal feels remarkably held by him. The weight of Will’s body on him, his clothes against Hannibal’s naked skin, the sheer physical presence of him is like a talisman, keeping the past away.

Will’s hands stroke up and down his side, firm and soothing. He leaves trails of tingles as he goes, and his kisses remain gentle but grow sloppier, tongue tangling with Hannibal’s own. Will tastes wonderful tonight, like fruits and dessert wine. Hannibal slowly feels his erection come back to life as he smells Will, feels him, tastes him. All his memories are melting away, replaced by Will, Will, Will alone. When Will’s lips separate from his, Hannibal heaves a big sigh of contentment.

“Better?” asks Will.

“Much, thank you Will,” he sighs, cupping Will’s face and drawing him back into another kiss.

After a few moments, Hannibal is gently grinding against Will’s hip, enjoying the feeling of their proximity. He is pushed back as Will sits up.

“Right,” he says, his voice rough. “If we want to do this, you need to stop doing that.”

Hannibal chuckles, deliriously happy for a moment to have Will affected in this way.

“How do you want me?”

For a moment, Will’s eyes rove over him. It looks as though he is visualising Hannibal in various configurations and his breathing gets heavier.

“Kneel.”

He clambers off the bed and removes the long coil of velveteen rope from the bag as Hannibal shifts onto his knees.

“Hands behind your back.”

Hannibal moves quietly as Will contemplates him.

“Tell me if it is uncomfortable.”

Hannibal just nods, his breath and heartbeat curiously stable in this moment. Like murder, this too requires a kind of level headedness.

Will climbs onto the bed once more and loops the rope across his chest, just above the swell of his pectorals, and around the curve of his biceps in a horizontal line three times. On the third loop around his body, he lowers the rope slightly, and when it returns to his front, it sits under his pectorals. Two more loops and his chest is framed in two red slashes, his arms secured tightly to his torso. Will ties knots under his armpits to secure the rope, then severs it from the remainder of the length with his pocket knife.

Will sits back to consider his work so far, sliding his fingers underneath the rope to test their give and making sure no circulation is being cut off. Hannibal sees a glimmer of satisfaction in his darkening eyes.

“Easy,” says Will, and that is all the warning Hannibal gets before the rope is attached to the bindings underneath his pectorals then looped around the back of his neck in a lewd version of a woman’s halter top. The binding around his neck slightly tugs on the one underneath, and as Hannibal glances down, he can see an imitation of cleavage on his chest. He looks at Will appraisingly who, to his credit, does not blush and simply looks back, unabashedly pleased with himself.

The rope is cut again and Will rounds him, tying his wrists together behind his back. This, Hannibal had expected. Will enjoys touching Hannibal when he cannot touch him back. Sometimes he wonders if it’s payback for all the times he has done the same to Will in the past. All the same, he is grateful for the binding because keeping his hands in one position voluntarily is a torture in and of itself.

Will cuts the rope in half. There is an almost meditative energy to him now. He runs the rope across Hannibal’s thigh and underneath to wrap around his calf, securing his leg together with a series of complicated knots that seem to serve more of an aesthetic purpose than a utilitarian one. Hannibal appreciates the attention to detail. Will repeats the process on Hannibal’s other leg then lifts his head slowly to meet his gaze.

“How does it feel?”

Hannibal flexes his muscles. There is very little give in his arms and when he takes a deep breath, the ropes on his chest dig into his skin uncomfortably. His legs are in an odd position. He can move, if only to knee walk, but otherwise his legs are bound tightly. He thinks of Elihu Vedder and his Soul in Bondage. He thinks of Hope Comforting Love in Bondage by Sidney Harold Meteyard.

“Constrained. Held. Safe,” he says finally.

Will smiles at his response.

“And now…”

He retrieves the blindfold and holds it gently in both hands, as though savouring the feeling of expensive silk. Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes, his eyes minutely asking for permission. When Hannibal does nothing but continue to breathe steadily, Will wraps the blindfold around his eyes and ties it behind his head in a secure knot.

The silk is butter soft against his skin and he closes his eyes behind it. The world is dark to him now, but he can still feel Will’s presence near him, and that alone is like a light.

“Remember, green for go ahead, yellow for pause, and red to stop immediately,” he reminds Hannibal.

Hannibal just huffs, hoping he conveys just how insulting it is for Will to remind him of such a simple concept.

Will chuckles fondly before he moves Hannibal bodily until Will is pressed against his back. He then gently tips him forward until Hannibal is on his knees, his chest pressed to the bed, face turned to the side. It is an entirely submissive position and he is acutely aware of the image he must be making, presented in front of Will so wantonly. He has no real purchase or way to move, entirely at Will’s mercy, and he feels a jolt in his abdomen at the realisation.

Will spends the next few minutes bringing Hannibal back to the anticipation and sensitisation he had felt before their conversation. His fingers trail along where the ropes meet Hannibal’s skin. He makes the gentlest, faintest of brushes, as though he is mesmerised by what he is seeing. Reverent. Not being able to see him seems to heighten every touch even more. The pressure of the ropes on his skin is just right and contrasts terribly and wonderfully with the graze of Will’s fingertips. Hannibal wonders if the sight of his trussed body will make a place for itself in Will’s memory palace.

Then abruptly, he pulls the cheeks of Hannibal’s ass apart and blows a stream of hot air over his hole.

“Ah!”

The sound escapes him before he can prevent it. It is more the shock of the sensation than the puff of air itself. For a moment, Hannibal realises what the blindfold has done. Wonderful, unpredictable Will is now even more of an unknown to him. He can no longer rely on visual cues to gauge his next move. It is a loss of control more intimate even than the ropes.

Will breathes damply for a moment, waiting for Hannibal to react, to squirm, but once the surprise has passed, he grounds himself and lets himself wait for whatever it is Will wants to do. Hannibal can be patient; he’s had a lot of practice at it. The tension between them spreads and tightens until he can almost feel Will’s anticipation threading through his body.

The first lick that comes is firm and slow.

Hannibal shudders.

The next ones are kitten soft and go across the globes of his ass, nuzzling and worrying the skin at the juncture of his thighs, nosing down to his balls then back up again to his hole. Will teases him, pressing kisses to the tight furled skin like he does to his face sometimes, before he returns to the slow, long passes of tongue he had begun with.

Hannibal can’t help but keen. There is something so base about this act in particular, and Will has a very talented tongue. Already, he can feel himself being driven out of his mind. He wants to shift but can’t. He wants to look at Will and he can’t. All he can do is lay there, feel Will’s tongue on the most intimate part of his body, his hands spreading him open, obscene and claiming. All he can do is take it. Just how Will wanted.

Will points his tongue and seems to probe at his hole, as though he is trying to get inside of him through sheer force alone. The image of him spearing Hannibal, like a pig on a spit, is so sudden and so overwhelming that he suddenly can’t catch his breath. The heat of Will’s tongue seems to reach his chest and he moans.

“Good?” rasps Will, his lips moving against Hannibal’s ass.

“Will,” he moans, a little dazed.

And then Will is giving him the dirtiest, open mouthed kiss, right onto his asshole, snarling a little in aggression. His tongue and lips move over him with a maddening pressure. Hannibal feels Will’s hands slap both globes of his ass simultaneously, striking him rough and hard as he tongues with fervour. The contrast between the soft slickness of Will’s tongue and the strength of his hands makes Hannibal’s hips buck but he has little purchase to go anywhere. At his little movement, Will squeezes the globes before pulling the cheeks apart and yanking Hannibal onto his face firmly.

Hannibal can feel his hole getting sloppy with saliva, the tight muscles yielding a little under the constant pressure. Will’s facial hair leaves tingles across the sensitive skin, and Hannibal knows he will have beard burn come tomorrow. Will laps at his hole insistently like it is the best thing he has ever tasted, massaging him in circles that grow tighter and tighter, until once again, he’s probing with his tongue. His hands grow tight on Hannibal’s skin and pull his cheeks even further apart until Hannibal grunts with discomfort.

Will gives a raw, dark laugh, and the vibrations travel up Hannibal’s body and make his eyes roll back in his head. His erection is heavy against his thigh, and he feels a bead of liquid well up from the head and slide down slowly against the sensitive skin of his penis. Everything is heightened, everything is made more intense. The arousal in his gut burns as the world narrows to Will’s tongue and Will’s hands branding him. He imagines them imprinting onto his skin, red handprints contrasting against his white skin, a claiming mark just like the tattoos.

The sounds he can hear are fervent and impassioned things, wet and licking, sloppy and dripping. It is filthy and vulgar and he can’t get enough of it.

“Come on, baby,” says Will. “Ride my face.”

Hannibal groans at the words and starts rocking his hips backwards, feeling Will’s nose press against his crack. Will’s hands leave his ass and worm their way around his thighs, playing with the ropes there and encouraging his movements, pulling him back as he gets rougher. His cheeks feel a little sore from the strength of Will’s grip and he knows bruises must already lie there. All of a sudden, Will’s teeth come into play, gently pressing indents on what must surely now be a very reddened rim. The slight hint of danger is only more arousing and Hannibal shakes a little from the touch.

Will sucks hard at his hole, creating a wet suction that feels divine. He then pushes more saliva out of his mouth to wet Hannibal thoroughly as though he isn’t already drowning in wetness. There is enough saliva that he can feel globs of it trail down his ass, dripping obscenely onto his balls. Will leaves his hole for a moment and tongues his balls, laving his tongue over each one individually, then catching the excess saliva on his tongue and bringing it back to his hole to push it in.

It’s so much; it might even be too much. It’s consumptive. It’s devouring. Will is literally eating him. Hannibal feels dizzy at the idea of it all.

Rimming has always been something they have done as a precursor to the main event, but now Will is showing no signs of stopping. His licks increase in ferocity and he keeps letting out little satisfied groans and grunts. His hole feels loose and fever hot, and so, so tender. He thinks Will could just slide a finger in there on its own, no lubricant needed.

It seems as though it is a game to Will. An experiment to see what kind of noises he can get out of Hannibal. At moments, he rapidly flickers his tongue from side to side, creating a fluttering sensation that makes his toes curl and his breaths come faster. At other times he licks with such pressure that he can feel his hole give way and open a little. In those moments he cannot help but moan helplessly. At times he is just content to tongue him openly, hard and claiming until Hannibal can’t understand what is happening to him.

He feels clawed open, like a live wire, like the slightest touch could send him bucking and coming. It is a new feeling, one he has never experienced before. He always needs stimulation to his cock to come, but Will has not touched him once throughout the ordeal and Hannibal is helpless.

“Will,” he moans urgently. “Will, I need to come.”

Will doesn’t react as though he’s heard him, tonguing him mercilessly. Hannibal wants to touch him, to put his hands in his hair and either push him off or pull him even closer. He wants the blindfold off him so he can see Will’s face, or whatever is visible of it from behind his body. He knows his lips are going to be cherry red, his jaw and chin wet and glistening from saliva, his stubble shining in the lamplight.

“Will, do something, anything. Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” Will growls, surfacing for air and suddenly letting go of Hannibal’s thighs and giving his cheeks another double slap. He bites at the swell of both of Hannibal’s cheeks punishingly. “You’re going to come like this.”

And he dives back in.

Hannibal feels a frantic need swell inside him. His cock is hard and aching and he can’t touch it. Will won’t touch it. He just keeps licking him, flicking his tongue, probing and prodding. Hannibal can’t quite understand how he’s doing it. His jaw and mouth must be sore by now. He finds himself at the sudden realisation that perhaps Will hungers for him just the way he hungers for him.

His moans are breaking apart as he rubs his face into the silk bedsheets. Open mouthed, he whines and whimpers; he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. There’s nothing he can do with himself. He can only rock back onto Will’s face for more of his devastating touch. He is just a hunk of meat and flesh at Will’s perusal, only reacting to his whims. Will’s hands wind up his body and start tweaking his nipples. He jolts as though electricity has gone through him.

“Ohhh, mmm, Will,” he cries out, breath shuddering.

Will is moaning and growling now, animalistic with abandon. His fingers are cruel and circle his nipples, pulling and petting at him, clawing into his pectorals a little, grazing his chest hair. His tongue is now jabbing at his hole as though to get inside. With a start he realises, it is inside. At least a little. He can feel its warmth and wetness seeping into the red flesh. He can feel the stabs of pleasured pain as Will twists his nipples and plays with his chest. It all seems to be winding him higher and higher. His hips rock against Will’s face.

“Mmm, nghh, oh God,” he pants.

Suddenly, Will’s pulls at the rope on his chest, tightening the hold on him. His tongue has shifted back to broad swipes at his twitching hole. The pressure against his back and chest is so unexpected, the pull of the rope on his skin, the roughness an exquisite feeling. He’s teetering right on the edge of the proverbial cliff. He’s never ridden the razor edge of orgasm this intensely for so long before. It builds inside him, just waiting for that one touch, that one moment of release. He feels hot and desperate, aching inside in a way only Will can make him feel.

He gets it when Will’s hands touch his hole. More specifically, his thumbs. Will hooks both of them into Hannibal’s loosened, wet hole and pulls them apart to get his tongue in further. His hole yields easily after the treatment it has just received. The image in his brain of Will’s hands and his tongue and his sheer passion coupled with the sensation of being physically opened so lewdly just to be penetrated is so erotic that he comes.

“Will!” he shouts, helplessly, jerking in his restraints, his cock spurting and spasming, whole body shaking. The ropes dig into his skin, making him feel like his body is barely holding together in one shape. Every muscle clenches and releases and clenches and releases. He feels like he finally understands why the French call it le petit mort as his eyes roll back in his head and his fingers and toes curl. His mind goes blissfully blank as he hears Will moan in response and continue to eat him out, now with an increased fervour as he stimulates Hannibal’s prostate externally, rubbing hard at his perineum with two fingers to draw out his orgasm for longer.

When Hannibal’s moans peter out into overwhelmed whimpering, Will pulls his fingers and mouth away, and lets him slump against the sheets.

He laughs a little hysterically in disbelief at the intensity of his orgasm. _This_ was Will’s fantasy?

He feels Will move off the bed, then hears the tap running in the bathroom and Will brushing his teeth. He drifts for a while, feeling the come cool against his abdomen, tacky and wet, and his heartbeat slow to a normal pace. He hears Will come back to him and his blindfold is removed.

The room is darker than it had been before; Will has turned off all the lights but one so Hannibal doesn’t feel his eyes burn at the sudden brightness. It is considerate and he blinks a little, taking in Will. His lips are just as red as he imagined, and also a little swollen. His jaw and stubble aren’t wet but his eyes are dark and pleased, and his hair is curling beautifully from the heat.

Will leans forward and shifts Hannibal back up onto his knees to wipe away the cooling semen. Once that task is done, he kisses him. Will tastes like mint toothpaste and mouthwash and gratitude that Hannibal has given this moment to him. As if he could have done little else - Will has given him everything he could ever have wanted. This is more than enough.

“Will, that was…”

He can’t even finish his train of thought.

“But you didn’t get to come,” he says, frowning and a little bothered by this.

Will smiles.

“Did you think we were finished?”

Hannibal just stares at him in disbelief.

“Will, I am a 55 year old man. How short do you think my refractory period is?”

“I’m up for a challenge. Are you?”

It’s a low blow and Will knows it. Hannibal is an inherently competitive person, and while he doesn’t think he can conceivably raise and maintain an erection any time soon, he is a little curious as to what Will wants to do. It is the curiosity that drives him to his decision.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he teases.

“Stay,” says Will lowly.

Hannibal obeys.

And now he finally undresses. His erection is straining the front of his trousers and surely must be painful now. Hannibal watches with hungry eyes, drinking in the sight of him after being deprived of nourishment for so long. There is a delayed gratification after the blindfold and he greedily stares as Will removes his shirt then his pants and finally his boxers, letting his cock hang reddened and ruddy in the cooling air. He removes the bottle of lubricant from their side drawer and approaches Hannibal.

Will kneels behind him, bringing his naked body flush against Hannibal’s with his arms between them, and his cock nestled between Hannibal’s still wet ass cheeks. If he could get aroused, he thinks this alone would do it.

Will runs his hands down Hannibal’s body, touching along the rope, squeezing his flesh. For a few long minutes, he just pets Hannibal’s skin, sweeping along his collarbones and up his throat where he lingers. Down his sides onto his hips. Up his snake trail and dipping into his belly button. Along the swell of his stomach. Counting his ribs and thumbing his nipples until they’re pointed and hard. Cupping his pectorals and rubbing gently, stimulating the skin and playing with his chest hair. Up into his hair, tugging and pulling gently. His skin is extremely sensitive post-orgasm and even the gentle touches seem a little painful. All the while he grinds his leaking erection into Hannibal’s ass.

“So beautiful, Hannibal, all tied up and just for me. All mine.”

The praise heats him and he feels his face and his neck redden.

“God, so gorgeous,” groans Will and leans forward to lick a stripe up his heated cheek which only reddens further at the action.

“Will,” he moans.

Will’s hands come down to grope his ass and he groans, tipping his head back. It’s so much, it’s maddening and overwhelming. His hands knead the meat of his ass, and palm it gently as he continues his slow thrusts. He moves one hand around to Hannibal’s penis, pushing through the neat bush of pubic hair and thumbing the hypersensitive head while another twists a nipple harshly.

“Will!” he wails. “It’s too much, beloved! T-too much!”

“Use your colours if you need them Hannibal,” reminds Will, not stopping the petting and grinding even more harshly now, the head of his cock catching every now and then on Hannibal’s throbbing hole.

He considers it. Maybe not a red, but a yellow. A please slow down of sorts. But something seems to slot into place. Will doesn’t just want a helpless, out of control Hannibal. He wants an overwhelmed one pushed to his limits. He wants a trembling, pathetic mess entirely at his mercy. Perhaps a little stupidly, Hannibal is curious as to how it will feel.

He stays silent.

“No? I thought not,” says Will smugly.

He pushes one dry finger from his right hand over Hannibal’s asshole and keeps his left hand on his chest, playing with his nipples, alternating between left and right. Hannibal flinches.

“So sensitive,” Will croons. “And yet you won’t use your colours.”

He pushes with the pad of his thumb against Hannibal’s hole until it pops in a little.

Hannibal whimpers but stays quiet, closing his eyes and trying to breathe evenly.

“Remarkable boy…” Will murmurs.

He shudders, Will’s words washing over him like a wave in the ocean, and opens his eyes. Looks down to see that his chest is red from Will’s ministrations and his nipples puffy and angry. Will’s thumb retreats from his asshole but a finger returns, wet with lube and probing.

The first slide of his finger is accompanied by Will’s grasping of his throat from behind. The pressure is still gentle but insistent enough that when he breathes, he feels his Adam’s apple brush against Will’s palm. The hand around his throat only partially distracts him from the crackling pain-like pleasure of Will’s finger inside him. Will mouths at his neck, not leaving a mark, but just tasting him, his sweat, his skin. His finger moves inside Hannibal, so gentle, so tender, not intending to do more than just slick his hole with lube and stretch it a little. It is almost nice, relaxing. He can deal with this.

Will retreats slowly then returns with two fingers, and this time Hannibal whimpers. His hole is sore and acutely responsive. Will’s fingers feel uncommonly huge inside him, and they enter smoothly and with purpose. Only this time, he doesn’t just stretch a little or aim to get Hannibal wet inside. He hooks his fingers into his prostate and tightens his palm around his throat. The effect is immediate.

If he had ever found his prostate sensitive before, it is a thousand, no, a million times more sensitive now. He jolts bodily, trying to get away from Will, get away from those unrelenting, violently invading fingers but Will doesn’t let him go, wrapping an arm around his torso and bringing him back down onto his hand, impaling him once more onto those searching fingers.

“Ahhh,” he pants as Will starts moving his fingers with deliberation, striking his prostate every single time. His hips twitch violently and he feels a jerk of arousal in his abdomen behind his cock. Too soon, he thinks. It’s way too soon.

“That’s right sweetheart,” growls Will. “Take it.”

He heaves a breath as Will fingers him even harder, the lube squelching obscenely in the quiet. Everything feels raw and hyperrealistic. He writhes and squirms and the rope stretches across his body, its gentle rubs against his skin feeling like a thousand tiny cuts. He is rocked like a ship on the ocean, up and down onto those unforgiving fingers.

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Will removes his hand and he heaves a sigh of relief, gulping mouthfuls of air into his lungs.

But the reprieve is short and he is back soon, with three dripping wet fingers this time dragging roughly against his insides. He feels like he is splitting in half. He half moans, half screams, his throat dry and working as he struggles to comprehend the strikes against his prostate. Against all odds, he feels himself harden. But it is barely enjoyable, just a manipulation of his body at Will’s hands. Will bites his earlobe and the arm around his chest goes back to tormenting his nipples and scratching his pectorals.

“Oh sweet thing,” he croons. “Are you getting hard again?”

Suddenly his pace increases and Hannibal can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stay there and take it. The pushes against his prostate are wild and persistent. The tug in his abdomen is flaring and his cock is thickening and his eyes are watering. He doesn’t know his own name anymore. He feels mad, like his body does not belong to him and is just an extension of Will. The intensity makes him want to black out which alarms him so he gathers all his energy and shouts, “Yellow!”

Immediately, Will’s fingers are out of him and he feels the pressure around his nipples release.

“Are you okay?” he asks urgently.

Hannibal can’t even speak. He swallows and his throat clicks. He is heaving breaths in through his mouth.

“Hannibal,” says Will.

He leans away then returns in a moment with the glass of water that they keep on the nightstand.

“Drink this.”

Hannibal drinks. He gets through half the water before stopping, hearing Will put the glass away. He leans back, resting heavily against Will’s body. Will massages the swell of his stomach, running soft circles on it.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

Hannibal just nods.

“Want to stop?”

And that is the real question. Does he want to stop? He has an idea of what Will wants to do to him now and it is an overwhelming one. But that doesn’t make it any less enticing. And no matter what, he always wants Will to finish inside him. Especially tonight of all nights. Stopping now will feel like losing, and he doesn’t like to lose.

He shakes his head.

“Just, avoid my prostate for now,” he says softly.

“Okay,” says Will, kissing his bare shoulder, his neck, his cheek. Leaning forward, his lips. Stretching upwards, his forehead.

The three fingers return but at a much more sedate pace. His breath hitches but he breathes through it, allowing Will to scissor his fingers and open them inside him. Because Will only seeks to prepare him now, it doesn’t take him long to decide Hannibal is ready and he pulls his fingers out for good.

He hears Will pour more lube onto his hand slick his cock and tries to mentally prepare himself for what is to come.

“Still okay baby?” asks Will.

“Yes,” breathes Hannibal.

And then Will starts to enter him. The first touch of his cock to Hannibal’s hole makes him break out in sweat. The glide inside him is inexorable, slow and measured, Will easing in with small thrusts to acclimate him to the feeling of fullness. Faint tremors run through his body as strong hands on his waist lower him onto his cock. He squirms weakly, every inch of hot and hard possession claiming him with a quiet strength.

When Will bottoms out, his world narrows to the points of contact between them. His chest against his back, his arms digging into his abdomen. His mouth on the nape of his neck, lazily sucking a mark where no collar will hide it. His cock huge and pulsing inside him. His ass on Will’s thighs. Like this, he is sitting on Will, nowhere else to go, just impaled entirely and full to the brim.

“You feel so good Hannibal, so soft, so warm, so wet. I could stay like this forever,” confesses Will.

He whimpers at the praise.

Will rocks a little, winding his arms around Hannibal’s chest and abdomen. He moves in little circles, keeping Hannibal a little tense with waiting.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this,” he says.

“I think I belong inside you,” he says.

“We fit together so beautifully,” he says.

Hannibal’s heart feels unaccountably full.

“Yes, Will,” he replies softly.

There are no other words for what is happening now. Will is making love to him.

He begins to thrust gently. The pushes into him are short and grinding. It feels as though Will could be content to just stay like this for hours, just living inside Hannibal, prising him open and keeping him fucked out. He can feel Will leaving marks on his neck and shoulders as he fucks him open. The rhythm is so steady, almost comforting, he feels like he is being bathed in affection and held in place as the universe spins around him.

Hannibal sighs.

Will’s hips start thrusting a little harder, a little firmer. He avoids Hannibal’s prostate as promised but the friction now is incredible and Hannibal’s head lolls against Will’s shoulder. He and Will moan in synchronisation, their voices entwining in the night. His legs feel numb and his arms are sore but it feels so good. It hurts so right.

Will's arms hold his hips and on his next pull out he raises Hannibal off his cock then pulls him back down on the thrust back in.

“Ohhhhhh,” he groans as Will begins to move him like a ragdoll up and down his cock, lifting him bodily and controlling his movements.

The grip on his ass is tight and possessing, and his hole is fucked repeatedly, Will battering a place for himself, rearranging his insides. In his wildest dreams he could not have imagined something so primal and dominating. He is suspended in a limbo between extreme sensitivity and shocking pleasure.

“God,” says Will harshly. “God, Hannibal.”

Will changes his strokes to deeper ones although he doesn’t decrease his intensity or speed. The result is his cock entering Hannibal from root to tip in smooth, glorious slides that make him feel like his brain is leaking out of his ears. The drives into him reach a place inside him that is ridiculously deep and he moans in incredulity. Will braces his knees a little lower and on the next stroke in, he’s even deeper in, pulling a garbled sound of shock from Hannibal.

“Will!” he shouts, toes clenching hard.

Will laughs breathlessly into his ear.

Hannibal barely has a chance to get used to the new depth before Will increases his pace, jackhammering into Hannibal at a frenzied pace. Gravity and Will’s arms tugging him back pull him onto Will’s cock until he thinks he can feel him in his stomach, in his chest, in his throat. Deep enough, fast enough, to make his brain rattle. Will is single-minded in his pursuit, driving into him and leaving his hole raw and fluttering around his length.

“Mmmm, Hannibal, you feel that? You feel me inside you?”

Hannibal can’t even respond, eyes gazing blindly at the ceiling, barely registering Will’s words.

Will’s spanks him hard on one cheek once, then twice, then one more time for good measure. He cries out at the jarring sensation.

“I asked you a question Doctor.”

Hannibal nods deliriously.

“Use your words,” snarls Will, spanking him hard again.

“Will, I feel you,” he sobs out.

Will has now fucked him past oversensitivity and back into pleasure. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, it could have been minutes or a half hour or maybe even longer but now he needs to come again. The pleasure is intensifying in tendrils that creep up inside his body. His cock is hard and straining again, turgid and in need of touch. He flexes his fingers, wanting badly to be untied, to be able to reach down and give himself some much needed relief.

“Will, I need to come,” he says urgently.

“Do you?” asks Will delicately, deceptively innocent.

“Yes, Will!”

“Beg.”

Will’s voice is hard, almost cruel in its demand when Hannibal can barely string together a coherent sentence.

“Will, please,” he manages to say.

“Not. Good. Enough.”

His words are punctuated by hard, claiming thrusts and Hannibal cries out with each one, feeling a little crazed.

“God Will please, please make me come, I need it, I need to come, I need it so bad.”

“More,” Will growls, thrusting harder and harder, his hip bones digging into the meat of Hannibal’s ass.

“Will,” he says, panting helplessly, his voice shaking with effort. “Will, help, I can’t. I can’t do this for much longer. Please, please, touch me.”

One of Will’s hands leaves his hip and reaches down to rub the stretch of Hannibal’s hole where it is stretched wide and open around Will’s cock. He moans at the hot and possessive touch that seems to burn him where Will touches, stimulating but not where he needs it.

“Here, baby?” asks Will. “Is here where I should touch you?”

“My cock Will,” he almost sobs. “Please make me come.”

And now, glorious pressure returns to his prostate as Will changes angles and drives mercilessly upwards. The pace is now brutal, stabs of pleasure radiating through him as the spot deep inside him is pummeled with an animalistic speed and force. One slick hand wraps around Hannibal hypersensitive cock, pulling and stroking his length and fondling his foreskin.

It doesn’t take long for him to come and it feels as though his whole body locks into place, orgasming harder than he ever has before. This second orgasm is so much stronger than the first. White liquid spills sluggishly from the head of his dick, a much smaller quantity than before with a painful sensation that feels as though it is being wrung out of him. His hole is fluttering intensely, clenching and releasing over and over again, shockwaves spreading as Will continues to fuck him through his orgasm.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Fuck, so tight Hannibal.”

He thrusts, almost violently, into Hannibal’s oversensitive hole a dozen times as he finally chases his own release. Hannibal feels each thrust almost in slow motion, all the colours and sensations brightened around him. He feels scraped raw and cracked open like a walnut. All he feels is Will. All he knows is Will.

When Will comes, he bites down on Hannibal’s shoulder with a shout, slamming his hips against Hannibal’s ass erratically and moaning. Hannibal just twitches, too exhausted to do anything, limp and utterly, utterly ruined.

For a moment Will just stays buried inside him, teeth buried in Hannibal’s skin, not deep enough to break it but enough to leave deep indentations and the beginning of a bruise. When he pulls out, Hannibal winces, hot come gushing out of him. Will immediately begins untying the ropes, starting with the one around his neck, then working off the ones around his chest and arms. When his legs come undone, Hannibal slumps forward, finally bringing his arms in front of him.

Will slowly and gently stretches his legs out, massaging them as feeling returns to them after so long. Pins and needles travel through him as the blood rushes through limbs that had been kept in one position for so long. Will massages his arms and legs until he feels human again, more than just a combination of flesh and bone for Will to move and mould and fuck.

He gets turned over and his groin is wiped with a warm, wet cloth. Will works some soothing cream into the rope welts on his body, and reaches down to leave butterfly kisses over the thick red marks they have left behind.

“You did so well, Hannibal,” he praises. “You were wonderful.”

Hannibal smiles. It is all he can manage for now.

Will leaves for what could have been a few seconds or a few minutes but he returns with a glass of slightly yellow water.

“Electrolytes. They’ll prevent cramps.”

Hannibal drinks the whole glass of water down then manages to put it on the bedside table when he is done. Will lies down beside him, pulling him close and holding him. They are silent for several, peaceful moments, the buzz of endorphins peaking inside.

“Thank you for tonight Hannibal,” Will says finally. “You are...incredible. I don’t know anyone else who would do for me what you did tonight.”

“I love you, Will.”

And he does. It is just that simple. There is not a single thing he wouldn’t do for Will.

“I love you too Hannibal. Not sure what I’ve done to deserve this but...I am glad to have you all the same.”

“Love is holy because it is like grace - the worthiness of its object is never really what matters.”

“Go to sleep,” says Will fondly.

“After you,” mutters Hannibal.

“Good night, Hannibal.”

Will closes his eyes and rolls over in bed, his face coming to rest on his pillow, his naked back shining in the starlight.

As he dozes, exhausted, Hannibal watches the night reveal the thousand sordid images that constitute his soul. He gets the absurd notion that all souls are made of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering things. He uses the last of his energy to turn his head and gaze at the mop of curls spilling onto the pillow beside him. His last thought is that his heart would hear Will and beat were it earth in an earthy bed; his dust would hear him and beat even if he laid for a century dead. It would start and tremble under Will’s feet, and blossom in purples and reds. He drifts off to sleep thinking of curls in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The visual of how I imagine Will tied Hannibal up looks like [this](https://www.artistics.com/sites/default/files/shibari-3-by-christian-houge-okurimono-series.jpg).
> 
> The two paintings Hannibal refers to are ["Soul in Bondage"](https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/953) and ["Hope Comforting Love in Bondage"](https://www.reddit.com/r/ArtHistory/comments/awi5wc/hope_comforting_love_in_bondage_1901_sidney/).
> 
> Hannibal thinking that he "feels remarkably held by him" is a reference to Midsommar's "But do you feel held by him?"
> 
> Hannibal quotes the following:  
> 1) Marilynne Robinson said "Love is holy because it is like grace - the worthiness of its object is never really what matters."  
> 2) "You dozed, and watched the night revealing / The thousand sordid images / Of which your soul was constituted;" and "The notion of some infinitely gentle / Infinitely suffering thing." from Preludes by T.S. Eliot are reworded by Hannibal.  
> 3) "My heart would hear her and beat, / Were it earth in an earthy bed; / My dust would hear her and beat; / Had I lain for a century dead; / Would start and tremble under her feet, / And blossom in purple and red." is from Maud: A Monodrama by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
> 
> Will calling Hannibal "Remarkable boy" is a throwback to a line spoken by Hannibal Lecter to Will Graham in the film Red Dragon (2002). He says, "Remarkable boy, I think I'll eat your heart." I switched to Will saying the line because they're blurring :)
> 
> If you want to listen to my sex playlist which played in the background while I wrote this chapter, then you can listen to it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4j5OasrNEwA14WxSj3tu0U?si=i_YbIWiIRnuDMN5ShCcR9A).
> 
> Big shout out to [Chel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agarina_amigara) for giving me pointers and answering my questions for this fic. All my love to [Egg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredTree) who was my personal cheerleader and motivated me as I wrote this. And all my love to the middies gang 💖💖 you know who you are.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and coming on this journey with me! Please leave a comment if you liked what you read! I have more fics planned in this verse so watch this space xx
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr @snailmailthings [here](http://www.snailmailthings.tumblr.com)!


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